"Ah! He is alive," said Napoleon. "Lift this young man up andcarry him to the dressing station."

Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who,hat in hand, rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on thevictory.

Prince Andrew remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness fromthe terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher, the joltingwhile being moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressingstation. He did not regain consciousness till late in the day, whenwith other wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to thehospital. During this transfer he felt a little stronger and wasable to look about him and even speak.

The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of aFrench convoy officer, who said rapidly: "We must halt here: theEmperor will pass here immediately; it will please him to see thesegentlemen prisoners."

"There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army,that he is probably tired of them," said another officer.

"All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the EmperorAlexander's Guards," said the first one, indicating a Russianofficer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards.

Bolkonski recognized Prince Repnin whom he had met in Petersburgsociety. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer ofthe Horse Guards.

Bonaparte, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse.

"Which is the senior?" he asked, on seeing the prisoners.

They named the colonel, Prince Repnin.

"You are the commander of the Emperor Alexander's regiment ofHorse Guards?" asked Napoleon.

"I commanded a squadron," replied Repnin.

"Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably," said Napoleon.

"The praise of a great commander is a soldier's highest reward,"said Repnin.

"I bestow it with pleasure," said Napoleon. "And who is that youngman beside you?"

Prince Repnin named Lieutenant Sukhtelen.

After looking at him Napoleon smiled.

"He's very young to come to meddle with us."

"Youth is no hindrance to courage," muttered Sukhtelen in afailing voice.

"A splendid reply!" said Napoleon. "Young man, you will go far!"

Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before theEmperor's eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail toattract his attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him onthe battlefield and, addressing him, again used the epithet "youngman" that was connected in his memory with Prince Andrew.

"Well, and you, young man," said he. "How do you feel, mon brave?"

Though five minutes before, Prince Andrew had been able to say a fewwords to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixedstraight on Napoleon, he was silent.... So insignificant at thatmoment seemed to him all the interests that engrossed Napoleon, somean did his hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victoryappear, compared to the lofty, equitable, and kindly sky which hehad seen and understood, that he could not answer him.

Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with thestern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood,suffering, and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking intoNapoleon's eyes Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance ofgreatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand, andthe still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no onealive could understand or explain.

The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said toone of the officers as he went: "Have these gentlemen attended toand taken to my bivouac; let my doctor, Larrey, examine theirwounds. Au revoir, Prince Repnin!" and he spurred his horse andgalloped away.

His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure.

The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken thelittle gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother's neck,but seeing the favor the Emperor showed the prisoners, they nowhastened to return the holy image.

Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but thelittle icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon hischest outside his uniform.

"It would be good," thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the iconhis sister had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence,"it would be good if everything were as clear and simple as it seemsto Mary. How good it would be to know where to seek for help in thislife, and what to expect after it beyond the grave! How happy and calmI should be if I could now say: 'Lord, have mercy on me!'... But towhom should I say that? Either to a Power indefinable,incomprehensible, which I not only cannot address but which I cannoteven express in words- the Great All or Nothing-" said he tohimself, "or to that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Mary!There is nothing certain, nothing at all except the unimportance ofeverything I understand, and the greatness of somethingincomprehensible but all-important.

The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurablepain; his feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of hisfather, wife, sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had feltthe night before the battle, the figure of the insignificant littleNapoleon, and above all this the lofty sky, formed the chiefsubjects of his delirious fancies.

The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presenteditself to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that littleNapoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look ofshortsighted delight at the misery of others, and doubts andtorments had followed, and only the heavens promised peace. Towardmorning all these dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darknessof unconciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon'sdoctor, Larrey, was much more likely to end in death than inconvalescence.

"He is a nervous, bilious subject," said Larrey, "and will notrecover."

And Prince Andrew, with others fatally wounded, was left to the careof the inhabitants of the district.

BOOK FOUR: 1806

CHAPTER I

Early in the year 1806 Nicholas Rostov returned home on leave.Denisov was going home to Voronezh and Rostov persuaded him totravel with him as far as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting acomrade at the last post station but one before Moscow, Denisov haddrunk three bottles of wine with him and, despite the jolting rutsacross the snow-covered road, did not once wake up on the way toMoscow, but lay at the bottom of the sleigh beside Rostov, who grewmore and more impatient the nearer they got to Moscow.

"How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets,shops, bakers' signboards, street lamps, and sleighs!" thought Rostov,when their leave permits had been passed at the town gate and they hadentered Moscow.

"Denisov! We're here! He's asleep," he added, leaning forward withhis whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speedof the sleigh.

Denisov gave no answer.

"There's the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhar, hashis stand, and there's Zakhar himself and still the same horse! Andhere's the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can't youhurry up? Now then!"

"Which house is it?" asked the driver.

"Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don't you see? That'sour house," said Rostov. "Of course, it's our house! Denisov, Denisov!We're almost there!"

Denisov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer.

"Dmitri," said Rostov to his valet on the box, "those lights arein our house, aren't they?"

"Yes, sir, and there's a light in your father's study."

"Then they've not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now,don't forget to put out my new coat," added Rostov, fingering hisnew mustache. "Now then, get on," he shouted to the driver. "Do wakeup, Vaska!" he went on, turning to Denisov, whose head was againnodding. "Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for vodka- geton!" Rostov shouted, when the sleigh was only three houses from hisdoor. It seemed to him the horses were not moving at all. At lastthe sleigh bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and Rostov sawoverhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster broken off,the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He sprang outbefore the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall. The house stood coldand silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to it. There was noone in the hall. "Oh God! Is everyone all right?" he thought, stoppingfor a moment with a sinking heart, and then immediately starting torun along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiarstaircase. The well-known old door handle, which always angered thecountess when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely asever. A solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom.

Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokofy, the footman, who wasso strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, satplaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked up at theopening door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenlychanged to one of delighted amazement.

"Gracious heavens! The young count!" he cried, recognizing his youngmaster. "Can it be? My treasure!" and Prokofy, trembling withexcitement, rushed toward the drawing-room door, probably in orderto announce him, but, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kissthe young man's shoulder.

Rostov, who had completely forgotten Denisov, not wishing anyoneto forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through thelarge dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old cardtables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone hadalready seen the young master, and, before he had reached thedrawing room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado andbegan hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of thesame kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, morekissing, more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguishwhich was Papa, which Natasha, and which Petya. Everyone shouted,talked, and kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was notthere, he noticed that.

"And I did not know... Nicholas... My darling!..."

"Here he is... our own... Kolya,* dear fellow... How he haschanged!... Where are the candles?... Tea!..."

*Nicholas.

"And me, kiss me!"

"Dearest... and me!"

Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Anna Mikhaylovna, Vera, and the old countwere all hugging him, and the serfs, men and maids, flocked into theroom, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.

Petya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, "And me too!"

Natasha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered hisface with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprangaway and pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shriekedpiercingly.

All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and allaround were lips seeking a kiss.

Sonya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss,looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for which shelonged. Sonya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially atthis moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, nottaking her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gaveher a grateful look, but was still expectant and looking forsomeone. The old countess had not yet come. But now steps were heardat the door, steps so rapid that they could hardly be his mother's.

Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, madesince he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her.When they met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift herface, but only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar's jacket.Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood thereand wiped his eyes at the sight.

Denisov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostovsall gathered round Nicholas in the sitting room.

The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it everymoment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding round him, watched everymovement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfullyadoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the placesnearest to him and disputed with one another who should bring himhis tea, handkerchief, and pipe.

Rostov was very happy in the love they showed him; but the firstmoment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemedinsufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more.

Next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travelersslept till ten o'clock.

In the room next their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers,satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshlycleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. Theservants were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving,and their well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smellof tobacco.

Rostov, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised hisdisheveled head from the hot pillow.

"Why, is it late?"

"Late! It's nearly ten o'clock," answered Natasha's voice. Arustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter ofgirls' voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened acrack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, blackhair, and merry faces. It was Natasha, Sonya, and Petya, who hadcome to see whether they were getting up.

"Nicholas! Get up!" Natasha's voice was again heard at the door.

"Directly!"

Meanwhile, Petya, having found and seized the sabers in the outerroom, with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elderbrother, and forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to seemen undressed, opened the bedroom door.

"Is this your saber?" he shouted.

The girls sprang aside. Denisov hid his hairy legs under theblanket, looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door,having let Petya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came frombehind it.

"Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!" said Natasha's voice.

"Is this your saber?" asked Petya. "Or is it yours?" he said,addressing the black-mustached Denisov with servile deference.

Rostov hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressinggown, and went out. Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was justgetting her foot into the other. Sonya, when he came in, wastwirling round and was about to expand her dresses into a balloonand sit down. They were dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, andwere both fresh, rosy, and bright. Sonya ran away, but Natasha, takingher brother's arm, led him into the sitting room, where they begantalking. They hardly gave one another time to ask questions and givereplies concerning a thousand little matters which could notinterest anyone but themselves. Natasha laughed at every word hesaid or that she said herself, not because what they were saying wasamusing, but because she felt happy and was unable to control herjoy which expressed itself by laughter.

"Oh, how nice, how splendid!" she said to everything.

Rostov felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, thatchildlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since heleft home now for the first time after eighteen months againbrightened his soul and his face.

"No, but listen," she said, "now you are quite a man, aren't you?I'm awfully glad you're my brother." She touched his mustache. "I wantto know what you men are like. Are you the same as we? No?"

"Why did Sonya run away?" asked Rostov.

"Ah, yes! That's a whole long story! How are you going to speak toher- thou or you?"

"As may happen," said Rostov.

"No, call her you, please! I'll tell you all about it some othertime. No, I'll tell you now. You know Sonya's my dearest friend.Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!"

She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on herlong, slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that iscovered even by a ball dress.

"I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler inthe fire and pressed it there!"

Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in whatused to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natasha's wildlybright eyes, Rostov re-entered that world of home and childhoodwhich had no meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the bestjoys of his life; and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof oflove did not seem to him senseless, he understood and was notsurprised at it.

"Well, and is that all?" he asked.

"We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was justnonsense, but we are friends forever. She, if she loves anyone, doesit for life, but I don't understand that, I forget quickly."

"Well, what then?"

"Well, she loves me and you like that."

Natasha suddenly flushed.

"Why, you remember before you went away?... Well, she says you areto forget all that.... She says: 'I shall love him always, but let himbe free.' Isn't that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn't it?"asked Natasha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident thatwhat she was now saying she had talked of before, with tears.

Rostov became thoughtful.

"I never go back on my word," he said. "Besides, Sonya is socharming that only a fool would renounce such happiness."

"No, no!" cried Natasha, "she and I have already talked it over.We knew you'd say so. But it won't do, because you see, if you saythat- if you consider yourself bound by your promise- it will seemas if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you weremarrying her because you must, and that wouldn't do at all."

Rostov saw that it had been well considered by them. Sonya hadalready struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, whenhe had caught a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. Shewas a charming girl of sixteen, evidently passionately in love withhim (he did not doubt that for an instant). Why should he not love hernow, and even marry her, Rostov thought, but just now there were somany other pleasures and interests before him! "Yes, they have taken awise decision," he thought, "I must remain free."

"Well then, that's excellent," said he. "We'll talk it over lateron. Oh, how glad I am to have you!

And Natasha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a balletdancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. WhenRostov met Sonya in the drawing room, he reddened. He did not know howto behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment ofmeeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it couldnot be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters,was looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behavewith her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as you-Sonya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tenderkisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, byNatasha's intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then thankedhim for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his freedomand told her that one way or another he would never cease to love her,for that would be impossible.

"How strange it is," said Vera, selecting a moment when all weresilent, "that Sonya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meetlike strangers."

Vera's remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, likemost of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable, notonly Sonya, Nicholas, and Natasha, but even the old countess, who-dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making abrilliant match- blushed like a girl.

Denisov, to Rostov's surprise, appeared in the drawing room withpomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart ashe made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to theladies and gentlemen than Rostov had ever expected to see him.

CHAPTER II

On his return to Moscow from the army, Nicholas Rostov waswelcomed by his home circle as the best of sons, a hero, and theirdarling Nikolenka; by his relations as a charming, attractive, andpolite young man; by his acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant ofhussars, a good dancer, and one of the best matches in the city.

The Rostovs knew everybody in Moscow. The old count had money enoughthat year, as all his estates had been remortgaged, and so Nicholas,acquiring a trotter of his own, very stylish riding breeches of thelatest cut, such as no one else yet had in Moscow, and boots of thelatest fashion, with extremely pointed toes and small silver spurs,passed his time very gaily. After a short period of adapting himselfto the old conditions of life, Nicholas found it very pleasant to beat home again. He felt that he had grown up and matured very much. Hisdespair at failing in a Scripture examination, his borrowing moneyfrom Gavril to pay a sleigh driver, his kissing Sonya on the sly- henow recalled all this as childishness he had left immeasurably behind.Now he was a lieutenant of hussars, in a jacket laced with silver, andwearing the Cross of St. George, awarded to soldiers for bravery inaction, and in the company of well-known, elderly, and respectedracing men was training a trotter of his own for a race. He knew alady on one of the boulevards whom he visited of an evening. He ledthe mazurka at the Arkharovs' ball, talked about the war with FieldMarshal Kamenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimateterms with a colonel of forty to whom Denisov had introduced

His passion for the Emperor had cooled somewhat in Moscow. Butstill, as he did not see him and had no opportunity of seeing him,he often spoke about him and about his love for him, letting it beunderstood that he had not told all and that there was something inhis feelings for the Emperor not everyone could understand, and withhis whole soul he shared the adoration then common in Moscow for theEmperor, who was spoken of as the "angel incarnate."

During Rostov's short stay in Moscow, before rejoining the army,he did not draw closer to Sonya, but rather drifted away from her. Shewas very pretty and sweet, and evidently deeply in love with him,but he was at the period of youth when there seems so much to dothat there is no time for that sort of thing and a young man fearsto bind himself and prizes his freedom which he needs for so manyother things. When he thought of Sonya, during this stay in Moscow, hesaid to himself, "Ah, there will be, and there are, many more suchgirls somewhere whom I do not yet know. There will be time enough tothink about love when I want to, but now I have no time." Besides,it seemed to him that the society of women was rather derogatory tohis manhood. He went to balls and into ladies' society with anaffectation of doing so against his will. The races, the English Club,sprees with Denisov, and visits to a certain house- that was anothermatter and quite the thing for a dashing young hussar!

At the beginning of March, old Count Ilya Rostov was very busyarranging a dinner in honor of Prince Bagration at the English Club.

The count walked up and down the hall in his dressing gown, givingorders to the club steward and to the famous Feoktist, the Club's headcook, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fishfor this dinner. The count had been a member and on the committee ofthe Club from the day it was founded. To him the Club entrusted thearrangement of the festival in honor of Bagration, for few men knew sowell how to arrange a feast on an open-handed, hospitable scale, andstill fewer men would be so well able and willing to make up out oftheir own resources what might be needed for the success of thefete. The club cook and the steward listened to the count's orderswith pleased faces, for they knew that under no other management couldthey so easily extract a good profit for themselves from a dinnercosting several thousand rubles.

"Yes, it can't be helped if they won't take less. Ah, dear me! I wasforgetting. We must have another entree. Ah, goodness gracious!" heclutched at his head. "Who is going to get me the flowers? Dmitri! Eh,Dmitri! Gallop off to our Moscow estate," he said to the factotumwho appeared at his call. "Hurry off and tell Maksim, the gardener, toset the serfs to work. Say that everything out of the hothouses mustbe brought here well wrapped up in felt. I must have two hundredpots here on Friday."

Having given several more orders, he was about to go to his"little countess" to have a rest, but remembering something else ofimportance, he returned again, called back the cook and the clubsteward, and again began giving orders. A light footstep and theclinking of spurs were heard at the door, and the young count,handsome, rosy, with a dark little mustache, evidently rested and madesleeker by his easy life in Moscow, entered the room.

"Ah, my boy, my head's in a whirl!" said the old man with a smile,as if he felt a little confused before his son. "Now, if you wouldonly help a bit! I must have singers too. I shall have my ownorchestra, but shouldn't we get the gypsy singers as well? Youmilitary men like that sort of thing."

"Really, Papa, I believe Prince Bagration worried himself lessbefore the battle of Schon Grabern than you do now," said his son witha smile.

The old count pretended to be angry.

"Yes, you talk, but try it yourself!"

And the count turned to the cook, who, with a shrewd andrespectful expression, looked observantly and sympathetically at thefather and son.

"What have the young people come to nowadays, eh, Feoktist?" saidhe. "Laughing at us old fellows!"

"That's so, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a gooddinner, but providing it and serving it all up, that's not theirbusiness!

"That's it, that's it!" exclaimed the count, and gaily seizing hisson by both hands, he cried, "Now I've got you, so take the sleigh andpair at once, and go to Bezukhob's, and tell him 'Count Ilya hassent you to ask for strawberries and fresh pineapples.' We can't getthem from anyone else. He's not there himself, so you'll have to go inand ask the princesses; and from there go on to the Rasgulyay- thecoachman Ipatka knows- and look up the gypsy Ilyushka, the one whodanced at Count Orlov's, you remember, in a white Cossack coat, andbring him along to me."

"And am I to bring the gypsy girls along with him?" askedNicholas, laughing. "Dear, dear!..."

At that moment, with noiseless footsteps and with thebusinesslike, preoccupied, yet meekly Christian look which neverleft her face, Anna Mikhaylovna entered the hall. Though she came uponthe count in his dressing gown every day, he invariably becameconfused and begged her to excuse his costume.

"No matter at all, my dear count," she said, meekly closing hereyes. "But I'll go to Bezukhov's myself. Pierre has arrived, and nowwe shall get anything we want from his hothouses. I have to see him inany case. He has forwarded me a letter from Boris. Thank God, Boris isnow on the staff."

The count was delighted at Anna Mikhaylovna's taking upon herselfone of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her.

"Tell Bezukhov to come. I'll put his name down. Is his wife withhim?" he asked.

Anna Mikhaylovna turned up her eyes, and profound sadness wasdepicted on her face.

"Ah, my dear friend, he is very unfortunate," she said. "If whatwe hear is true, it is dreadful. How little we dreamed of such a thingwhen we were rejoicing at his happiness! And such a lofty angelic soulas young Bezukhov! Yes, I pity him from my heart, and shall try togive him what consolation I can."

"Wh-what is the matter?" asked both the young and old Rostov.

Anna Mikhaylovna sighed deeply.

"Dolokhov, Mary Ivanovna's son," she said in a mysterious whisper,"has compromised her completely, they say. Pierre took him up, invitedhim to his house in Petersburg, and now... she has come here andthat daredevil after her!" said Anna Mikhaylovna, wishing to showher sympathy for Pierre, but by involuntary intonations and a halfsmile betraying her sympathy for the "daredevil," as she calledDolokhov. "They say Pierre is quite broken by his misfortune."

"Dear, dear! But still tell him to come to the Club- it will allblow over. It will be a tremendous banquet."

Next day, the third of March, soon after one o'clock, two hundredand fifty members of the English Club and fifty guests were awaitingthe guest of honor and hero of the Austrian campaign, PrinceBagration, to dinner.

On the first arrival of the news of the battle of Austerlitz, Moscowhad been bewildered. At that time, the Russians were so used tovictories that on receiving news of the defeat some would simply notbelieve it, while others sought some extraordinary explanation of sostrange an event. In the English Club, where all who weredistinguished, important, and well informed forgathered when thenews began to arrive in December, nothing was said about the war andthe last battle, as though all were in a conspiracy of silence. Themen who set the tone in conversation- Count Rostopchin, Prince YuriDolgorukov, Valuev, Count Markov, and Prince Vyazemski- did not showthemselves at the Club, but met in private houses in intimate circles,and the Moscovites who took their opinions from others- Ilya Rostovamong them- remained for a while without any definite opinion on thesubject of the war and without leaders. The Moscovites felt thatsomething was wrong and that to discuss the bad news was difficult,and so it was best to be silent. But after a while, just as a jurycomes out of its room, the bigwigs who guided the Club's opinionreappeared, and everybody began speaking clearly and definitely.Reasons were found for the incredible, unheard-of, and impossibleevent of a Russian defeat, everything became clear, and in all cornersof Moscow the same things began to be said. These reasons were thetreachery of the Austrians, a defective commissariat, the treachery ofthe Pole Przebyszewski and of the Frenchman Langeron, Kutuzov'sincapacity, and (it was whispered) the youth and inexperience of thesovereign, who had trusted worthless and insignificant people. But thearmy, the Russian army, everyone declared, was extraordinary and hadachieved miracles of valor.The soldiers, officers, and generals wereheroes. But the hero of heroes was Prince Bagration, distinguishedby his Schon Grabern affair and by the retreat from Austerlitz,where he alone had withdrawn his column unbroken and had all daybeaten back an enemy force twice as numerous as his own. What alsoconduced to Bagration's being selected as Moscow's hero was the factthat he had no connections in the city and was a stranger there. Inhis person, honor was shown to a simple fighting Russian soldierwithout connections and intrigues, and to one who was associated bymemories of the Italian campaign with the name of Suvorov. Moreover,paying such honor to Bagration was the best way of expressingdisapproval and dislike of Kutuzov.

"Had there been no Bagration, it would have been necessary to inventhim," said the wit Shinshin, parodying the words of Voltaire.Kutuzov no one spoke of, except some who abused him in whispers,calling him a court weathercock and an old satyr.

All Moscow repeated Prince Dolgorukov's saying: "If you go onmodeling and modeling you must get smeared with clay," suggestingconsolation for our defeat by the memory of former victories; andthe words of Rostopchin, that French soldiers have to be incited tobattle by highfalutin words, and Germans by logical arguments toshow them that it is more dangerous to run away than to advance, butthat Russian soldiers only need to be restrained and held back! On allsides, new and fresh anecdotes were heard of individual examples ofheroism shown by our officers and men at Austerlitz. One had saved astandard, another had killed five Frenchmen, a third had loaded fivecannon singlehanded. Berg was mentioned, by those who did not knowhim, as having, when wounded in the right hand, taken his sword in theleft, and gone forward. Of Bolkonski, nothing was said, and only thosewho knew him intimately regretted that he had died so young, leaving apregnant wife with his eccentric father.

CHAPTER III

On that third of March, all the rooms in the English Club werefilled with a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming inspringtime. The members and guests of the Club wandered hither andthither, sat, stood, met, and separated, some in uniform and some inevening dress, and a few here and there with powdered hair and inRussian kaftans. Powdered footmen, in livery with buckled shoes andsmart stockings, stood at every door anxiously noting visitors'every movement in order to offer their services. Most of those presentwere elderly, respected men with broad, self-confident faces, fatfingers, and resolute gestures and voices. This class of guests andmembers sat in certain habitual places and met in certain habitualgroups. A minority of those present were casual guests- chieflyyoung men, among whom were Denisov, Rostov, and Dolokhov- who wasnow again an officer in the Semenov regiment. The faces of these youngpeople, especially those who were militarymen, bore that expression ofcondescending respect for their elders which seems to say to the oldergeneration, "We are prepared to respect and honor you, but all thesame remember that the future belongs to us."

Nesvitski was there as an old member of the Club. Pierre, who at hiswife's command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles,went about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull.Here, as elsewhere, he was surrounded by an atmosphere of subservienceto his wealth, and being in the habit of lording it over these people,he treated them with absent-minded contempt.

By his age he should have belonged to the younger men, but by hiswealth and connections he belonged to the groups old and honoredguests, and so he went from one group to another. Some of the mostimportant old men were the center of groups which even strangersapproached respectfully to hear the voices of well-known men. Thelargest circles formed round Count Rostopchin, Valuev, andNaryshkin. Rostopchin was describing how the Russians had beenoverwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to force their way throughthem with bayonets.

Valuev was confidentially telling that Uvarov had been sent fromPetersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz.

In the third circle, Naryshkin was speaking of the meeting of theAustrian Council of War at which Suvorov crowed like a cock in replyto the nonsense talked by the Austrian generals. Shinshin, standingclose by, tried to make a joke, saying that Kutuzov had evidentlyfailed to learn from Suvorov even so simple a thing as the art ofcrowing like a cock, but the elder members glanced severely at thewit, making him feel that in that place and on that day, it wasimproper to speak so of Kutuzov.

Count Ilya Rostov, hurried and preoccupied, went about in his softboots between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting theimportant and unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were allequals, while his eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-upyoung son, resting on him and winking joyfully at him. Young Rostovstood at a window with Dolokhov, whose acquaintance he had lately madeand highly valued. The old count came up to them and pressedDolokhov's hand.

"Please come and visit us... you know my brave boy... beentogether out there... both playing the hero... Ah, VasiliIgnatovich... How d'ye do, old fellow?" he said, turning to an old manwho was passing, but before he had finished his greeting there was ageneral stir, and a footman who had run in announced, with afrightened face: "He's arrived!"

Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward, and- like rye shakentogether in a shovel- the guests who had been scattered about indifferent rooms came together and crowded in the large drawing room bythe door of the ballroom.

Bagration appeared in the doorway of the anteroom without hat orsword, which, in accord with the Club custom, he had given up to thehall porter. He had no lambskin cap on his head, nor had he a loadedwhip over his shoulder, as when Rostov had seen him on the eve ofthe battle of Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russianand foreign Orders, and the Star of St. George on his left breast.Evidently just before coming to the dinner he had had his hair andwhiskers trimmed, which changed his appearance for the worse. Therewas something naively festive in his air, which, in conjunction withhis firm and virile features, gave him a rather comical expression.Bekleshev and Theodore Uvarov, who had arrived with him, paused at thedoorway to allow him, as the guest of honor, to enter first. Bagrationwas embarrassed, not wishing to avail himself of their courtesy, andthis caused some delay at the doors, but after all he did at lastenter first. He walked shyly and awkwardly over the parquet floor ofthe reception room, not knowing what to do with his hands; he was moreaccustomed to walk over a plowed field under fire, as he had done atthe head of the Kursk regiment at Schon Grabern- and he would havefound that easier. The committeemen met him at the first door and,expressing their delight at seeing such a highly honored guest, tookpossession of him as it were, without waiting for his reply,surrounded him, and led him to the drawing room. It was at firstimpossible to enter the drawing-room door for the crowd of members andguests jostling one another and trying to get a good look at Bagrationover each other's shoulders, as if he were some rare animal. CountIlya Rostov, laughing and repeating the words, "Make way, dear boy!Make way, make way!" pushed through the crowd more energeticallythan anyone, led the guests into the drawing room, and seated themon the center sofa. The bigwigs, the most respected members of theClub, beset the new arrivals. Count Ilya, again thrusting his waythrough the crowd, went out of the drawing room and reappeared aminute later with another committeeman, carrying a large silver salverwhich he presented to Prince Bagration. On the salver lay someverses composed and printed in the hero's honor. Bagration, onseeing the salver, glanced around in dismay, as though seeking help.But all eyes demanded that he should submit. Feeling himself intheir power, he resolutely took the salver with both hands andlooked sternly and reproachfully at the count who had presented itto him. Someone obligingly took the dish from Bagration (or hewould, it seemed, have held it till evening and have gone in to dinnerwith it) and drew his attention to the verses.

"Well, I will read them, then!" Bagration seemed to say, and, fixinghis weary eyes on the paper, began to read them with a fixed andserious expression. But the author himself took the verses and beganreading them aloud. Bagration bowed his bead and listened:

Bring glory then to Alexander's reign And on the throne our Titus shield. A dreaded foe be thou, kindhearted as a man, A Rhipheus at home, a Caesar in the field! E'en fortunate Napoleon Knows by experience, now, Bagration, And dare not Herculean Russians trouble...

But before he had finished reading, a stentorian major-domoannounced that dinner was ready! The door opened, and from thedining room came the resounding strains of the polonaise:

Conquest's joyful thunder waken, Triumph, valiant Russians, now!...

and Count Rostov, glancing angrily at the author who went on readinghis verses, bowed to Bagration. Everyone rose, feeling that dinner wasmore important than verses, and Bagration, again preceding all therest, went in to dinner. He was seated in the place of honor betweentwo Alexanders- Bekleshev and Naryshkin- which was a significantallusion to the name of the sovereign. Three hundred persons tooktheir seats in the dining room, according to their rank andimportance: the more important nearer to the honored guest, asnaturally as water flows deepest where the land lies lowest.

Just before dinner, Count Ilya Rostov presented his son toBagration, who recognized him and said a few words to him,disjointed and awkward, as were all the words he spoke that day, andCount Ilya looked joyfully and proudly around while Bagration spoke tohis son.

Nicholas Rostov, with Denisov and his new acquaintance, Dolokhov,sat almost at the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre,beside Prince Nesvitski. Count Ilya Rostov with the other members ofthe committee sat facing Bagration and, as the very personification ofMoscow hospitality, did the honors to the prince.

His efforts had not been in vain. The dinner, both the Lenten andthe other fare, was splendid, yet he could not feel quite at ease tillthe end of the meal. He winked at the butler, whispered directionsto the footmen, and awaited each expected dish with some anxiety.Everything was excellent. With the second course, a gigantic sterlet(at sight of which Ilya Rostov blushed with self-consciouspleasure), the footmen began popping corks and filling the champagneglasses. After the fish, which made a certain sensation, the countexchanged glances with the other committeemen. "There will be manytoasts, it's time to begin," he whispered, and taking up his glass, herose. All were silent, waiting for what he would say.

"To the health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!" he cried, and atthe same moment his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of joy andenthusiasm. The band immediately struck up "Conquest's joyfulthunder waken..." All rose and cried "Hurrah!" Bagration also rose andshouted "Hurrah!" in exactly the same voice in which he had shouted iton the field at Schon Grabern. Young Rostov's ecstatic voice couldbe heard above the three hundred others. He nearly wept. "To thehealth of our Sovereign, the Emperor!" he roared, "Hurrah!" andemptying his glass at one gulp he dashed it to the floor. Manyfollowed his example, and the loud shouting continued for a long time.When the voices subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glassand everybody sat down again, smiling at the noise they had made andexchanging remarks. The old count rose once more, glanced at a notelying beside his plate, and proposed a toast, "To the health of thehero of our last campaign, Prince Peter Ivanovich Bagration!" andagain his blue eyes grew moist. "Hurrah!" cried the three hundredvoices again, but instead of the band a choir began singing acantata composed by Paul Ivanovich Kutuzov:

Russians! O'er all barriers on! Courage conquest guarantees; Have we not Bagration? He brings foe men to their knees,... etc.

As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast wasproposed and Count Ilya Rostov became more and more moved, moreglass was smashed, and the shouting grew louder. They drank toBekleshev, Naryshkin, Uvarov, Dolgorukov, Apraksin, Valuev, to thecommittee, to all the Club members and to all the Club guests, andfinally to Count Ilya Rostov separately, as the organizer of thebanquet. At that toast, the count took out his handkerchief and,covering his face, wept outright.

CHAPTER IV

Pierre sat opposite Dolokhov and Nicholas Rostov. As usual, he ateand drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately noticedthat some great change had come over him that day. He was silent allthrough dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling, or, with fixedeyes and a look of complete absent-mindedness, kept rubbing the bridgeof his nose. His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed to see andhear nothing of what was going on around him and to be absorbed bysome depressing and unsolved problem.

The unsolved problem that tormented him was caused by hints given bythe princess, his cousin, at Moscow, concerning Dolokhov's intimacywith his wife, and by an anonymous letter he had received thatmorning, which in the mean jocular way common to anonymous letterssaid that he saw badly through his spectacles, but that his wife'sconnection with Dolokhov was a secret to no one but himself. Pierreabsolutely disbelieved both the princess' hints and the letter, but hefeared now to look at Dolokhov, who was sitting opposite him. Everytime he chanced to meet Dolokhov's handsome insolent eyes, Pierre feltsomething terrible and monstrous rising in his soul and turned quicklyaway. Involuntarily recalling his wife's past and her relations withDolokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might betrue, or might at least seem to be true had it not referred to hiswife. He involuntarily remembered how Dolokhov, who had fullyrecovered his former position after the campaign, had returned toPetersburg and come to him. Availing himself of his friendly relationswith Pierre as a boon companion, Dolokhov had come straight to hishouse, and Pierre had put him up and lent him money. Pierre recalledhow Helene had smilingly expressed disapproval of Dolokhov's living attheir house, and how cynically Dolokhov had praised his wife'sbeauty to him and from that time till they came to Moscow had not leftthem for a day.

"Yes, he is very handsome," thought Pierre, "and I know him. Itwould be particularly pleasant to him to dishonor my name and ridiculeme, just because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriendedhim, and helped him. I know and understand what a spice that would addto the pleasure of deceiving me, if it really were true. Yes, if itwere true, but I do not believe it. I have no right to, and can't,believe it." He remembered the expression Dolokhov's face assumed inhis moments of cruelty, as when tying the policeman to the bear anddropping them into the water, or when he challenged a man to a duelwithout any reason, or shot a post-boy's horse with a pistol. Thatexpression was often on Dolokhov's face when looking at him. "Yes,he is a bully," thought Pierre, "to kill a man means nothing to him.It must seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and that mustplease him. He must think that I, too, am afraid of him- and in fact Iam afraid of him," he thought, and again he felt something terribleand monstrous rising in his soul. Dolokhov, Denisov, and Rostov werenow sitting opposite Pierre and seemed very gay. Rostov was talkingmerrily to his two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and theother a notorious duelist and rake, and every now and then heglanced ironically at Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded, andmassive figure was a very noticeable one at the dinner. Rostovlooked inimically at Pierre, first because Pierre appeared to hishussar eyes as a rich civilian, the husband of a beauty, and in aword- an old woman; and secondly because Pierre in his preoccupationand absent-mindedness had not recognized Rostov and had notresponded to his greeting. When the Emperor's health was drunk,Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his glass.

"What are you about?" shouted Rostov, looking at him in an ecstasyof exasperation. "Don't you hear it's His Majesty the Emperor'shealth?"

Pierre sighed, rose submissively, emptied his glass, and, waitingtill all were seated again, turned with his kindly smile to Rostov.

"Why, I didn't recognize you!" he said. But Rostov was otherwiseengaged; he was shouting "Hurrah!"

"Why don't you renew the acquaintance?" said Dolokhov to Rostov.

"Confound him, he's a fool!" said Rostov.

"One should make up to the husbands of pretty women," said Denisov.

Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they weretalking about him. He reddened and turned away.

"Well, now to the health of handsome women!" said Dolokhov, and witha serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of hismouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre.

"Here's to the health of lovely women, Peterkin- and theirlovers!" he added.

Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without lookingat Dolokhov or answering him. The footman, who was distributingleaflets with Kutuzov's cantata, laid one before Pierre as one ofthe principal guests. He was just going to take it when Dolokhov,leaning across, snatched it from his hand and began reading it. Pierrelooked at Dolokhov and his eyes dropped, the something terrible andmonstrous that had tormented him all dinnertime rose and tookpossession of him. He leaned his whole massive body across the table.

"How dare you take it?" he shouted.

Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvitskiand the neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Bezukhov.

"Don't! Don't! What are you about?" whispered their frightenedvoices.

Dolokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and thatsmile of his which seemed to say, "Ah! This is what I like!"

"You shan't have it!" he said distinctly.

Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.

"You...! you... scoundrel! I challenge you!" he ejaculated, and,pushing back his chair, he rose from the table.

At the very instant he did this and uttered those words, Pierre feltthat the question of his wife's guilt which had been tormenting himthe whole day was finally and indubitably answered in the affirmative.He hated her and was forever sundered from her. Despite Denisov'srequest that he would take no part in the matter, Rostov agreed tobe Dolokhov's second, and after dinner he discussed the arrangementsfor the duel with Nesvitski, Bezukhov's second. Pierre went home,but Rostov with Dolokhov and Denisov stayed on at the Club tilllate, listening to the gypsies and other singers.

"Well then, till tomorrow at Sokolniki,"said Dolokhov, as he tookleave of Rostov in the Club porch.

"And do you feel quite calm?" Rostov asked.

Dolokhov paused.

"Well, you see, I'll tell you the whole secret of dueling in twowords. If you are going to fight a duel, and you make a will and writeaffectionate letters to your parents, and if you think you may bekilled, you are a fool and are lost for certain. But go with thefirm intention of killing your man as quickly and surely aspossible, and then all will be right, as our bear huntsman at Kostromaused to tell me. 'Everyone fears a bear,' he says, 'but when you seeone your fear's all gone, and your only thought is not to let himget away!' And that's how it is with me. A demain, mon cher."*

*Till tomorrow, my dear fellow.

Next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Nesvitski drove to theSokolniki forest and found Dolokhov, Denisov, and Rostov alreadythere. Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerationswhich had no connection with the matter in hand. His haggard facewas yellow. He had evidently not slept that night. He looked aboutdistractedly and screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. Hewas entirely absorbed by two considerations: his wife's guilt, ofwhich after his sleepless night he had not the slightest doubt, andthe guiltlessness of Dolokhov, who had no reason to preserve the honorof a man who was nothing to him.... "I should perhaps have done thesame thing in his place," thought Pierre. "It's even certain that Ishould have done the same, then why this duel, this murder? Either Ishall kill him, or he will hit me in the head, or elbow, or knee.Can't I go away from here, run away, bury myself somewhere?" passedthrough his mind. But just at moments when such thoughts occurred tohim, he would ask in a particularly calm and absent-minded way,which inspired the respect of the onlookers, "Will it be long? Arethings ready?"

When all was ready, the sabers stuck in the snow to mark thebarriers, and the pistols loaded, Nesvitski went up to Pierre.

"I should not be doing my duty, Count," he said in timid tones, "andshould not justify your confidence and the honor you have done me inchoosing me for your second, if at this grave, this very grave, momentI did not tell you the whole truth. I think there is no sufficientground for this affair, or for blood to be shed over it.... You werenot right, not quite in the right, you were impetuous..."

"Oh yes, it is horribly stupid," said Pierre.

"Then allow me to express your regrets, and I am sure youropponent will accept them," said Nesvitski (who like the othersconcerned in the affair, and like everyone in similar cases, did notyet believe that the affair had come to an actual duel). "You know,Count, it is much more honorable to admit one's mistake than to letmatters become irreparable. There was no insult on either side.Allow me to convey...."

"No! What is there to talk about?" said Pierre. "It's all thesame.... Is everything ready?" he added. "Only tell me where to go andwhere to shoot," he said with an unnaturally gentle smile.

He took the pistol in his hand and began asking about the working ofthe trigger, as he had not before held a pistol in his hand- a factthat he did not to confess.

"Oh yes, like that, I know, I only forgot," said he.

"No apologies, none whatever," said Dolokhov to Denisov (who onhis side had been attempting a reconciliation), and he also went up tothe appointed place.

The spot chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the road,where the sleighs had been left, in a small clearing in the pineforest covered with melting snow, the frost having begun to break upduring the last few days. The antagonists stood forty paces apart atthe farther edge of the clearing. The seconds, measuring the paces,left tracks in the deep wet snow between the place where they had beenstanding and Nesvitski's and Dolokhov's sabers, which were stuckintothe ground ten paces apart to mark the barrier. It was thawing andmisty; at forty paces' distance nothing could be seen. For threeminutes all had been ready, but they still delayed and all weresilent.

CHAPTER V

"Well begin!" said Dolokhov.

"All right," said Pierre, still smiling in the same way. A feelingof dread was in the air. It was evident that the affair so lightlybegun could no longer be averted but was taking its courseindependently of men's will.

Denisov first went to the barrier and announced: "As the adve'sawieshave wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed. Take your pistols,and at the word thwee begin to advance.

"O-ne! T-wo! Thwee!" he shouted angrily and stepped aside.

The combatants advanced along the trodden tracks, nearer andnearer to one another, beginning to see one another through themist. They had the right to fire when they liked as they approachedthe barrier. Dolokhov walked slowly without raising his pistol,looking intently with his bright, sparkling blue eyes into hisantagonist's face. His mouth wore its usual semblance of a smile.

"So I can fire when I like!" said Pierre, and at the word "three,"he went quickly forward, missing the trodden path and stepping intothe deep snow. He held the pistol in his right hand at arm's length,apparently afraid of shooting himself with it. His left hand he heldcarefully back, because he wished to support his right hand with itand knew he must not do so. Having advanced six paces and strayedoff the track into the snow, Pierre looked down at his feet, thenquickly glanced at Dolokhov and, bending his finger as he had beenshown, fired. Not at all expecting so loud a report, Pierreshuddered at the sound and then, smiling at his own sensations,stood still. The smoke, rendered denser by the mist, prevented himfrom seeing anything for an instant, but there was no second report ashe had expected. He only heard Dolokhov's hurried steps, and hisfigure came in view through the smoke. He was pressing one hand to hisleft side, while the other clutched his drooping pistol. His facewas pale. Rostov ran toward him and said something.

"No-o-o!" muttered Dolokhov through his teeth, "no, it's notover." And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to thesaber, he sank on the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; hewiped it on his coat and supported himself with it. His frowningface was pallid and quivered.

"Plea..." began Dolokhov, but could not at first pronounce the word.

"Please," he uttered with an effort.

Pierre, hardly restraining his sobs, began running toward Dolokhovand was about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dolokhovcried:

"To your barrier!" and Pierre, grasping what was meant, stopped byhis saber. Only ten paces divided them. Dolokhov lowered his head tothe snow, greedily bit at it, again raised his head, adjusted himself,drew in his legs and sat up, seeking a firm center of gravity. Hesucked and swallowed the cold snow, his lips quivered buthis eyes, still smiling, glittered with effort and exasperation ashe mustered his remaining strength. He raised his pistol and aimed.

"Sideways! Cover yourself with your pistol!" ejaculated Nesvitski.

"Cover yourself!" even Denisov cried to his adversary.

Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legshelplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facingDolokhov looked sorrowfully at him. Denisov, Rostov, and Nesvitskiclosed their eyes. At the same instant they heard a report andDolokhov's angry cry.

Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest,trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words:

"Folly... folly! Death... lies..." he repeated, puckering his face.

Nesvitski stopped him and took him home.

Rostov and Denisov drove away with the wounded Dolokhov.

The latter lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did notanswer a word to the questions addressed to him. But on enteringMoscow he suddenly came to and, lifting his head with an effort,took Rostov, who was sitting beside him, by the hand. Rostov wasstruck by the totally altered and unexpectedly rapturous and tenderexpression on Dolokhov's face.

"Well? How do you feel?" he asked.

"Bad! But it's not that, my friend-" said Dolokhov with a gaspingvoice. "Where are we? In Moscow, I know. I don't matter, but I havekilled her, killed... She won't get over it! She won't survive...."

When he had become a little quieter, he explained to Rostov thathe was living with his mother, who, if she saw him dying, would notsurvive it. He implored Rostov to go on and prepare her.

Rostov went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surpriselearned that Dolokhov the brawler, Dolokhov the bully, lived in Moscowwith an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the mostaffectionate of sons and brothers.

CHAPTER VI

Pierre had of late rarely seen his wife alone. Both in Petersburgand in Moscow their house was always full of visitors. The night afterthe duel he did not go to his bedroom but, as he often did, remainedin his father's room, that huge room in which Count Bezukhov had died.

He lay down on the sofa meaning to fall asleep and forget all thathad happened to him, but could not do so. Such a storm of feelings,thoughts, and memories suddenly arose within him that he could notfall asleep, nor even remain in one place, but had to jump up and pacethe room with rapid steps. Now he seemed to see her in the earlydays of their marriage, with bare shoulders and a languid,passionate look on her face, and then immediately he saw beside herDolokhov's handsome, insolent, hard, and mocking face as he had seenit at the banquet, and then that same face pale, quivering, andsuffering, as it had been when he reeled and sank on the snow.

"What has happened?" he asked himself. "I have killed her lover,yes, killed my wife's lover. Yes, that was it! And why? How did I cometo do it?"- "Because you married her," answered an inner voice.

"But in what was I to blame?" he asked. "In marrying her withoutloving her; in deceiving yourself and her." And he vividly recalledthat moment after supper at Prince Vasili's, when he spoke those wordshe had found so difficult to utter: "I love you." "It all comes fromthat! Even then I felt it," he thought. "I felt then that it was notso, that I had no right to do it. And so it turns out."

He remembered his honeymoon and blushed at the recollection.Particularly vivid, humiliating, and shameful was the recollectionof how one day soon after his marriage he came out of the bedroom intohis study a little before noon in his silk dressing gown and found hishead steward there, who, bowing respectfully, looked into his face andat his dressing gown and smiled slightly, as if expressingrespectful understanding of his employer's happiness.

"But how often I have felt proud of her, proud of her majesticbeauty and social tact," thought he; "been proud of my house, in whichshe received all Petersburg, proud of her unapproachability andbeauty. So this is what I was proud of! I then thought that I didnot understand her. How often when considering her character I havetold myself that I was to blame for not understanding her, for notunderstanding that constant composure and complacency and lack ofall interests or desires, and the whole secret lies in the terribletruth that she is a depraved woman. Now I have spoken that terribleword to myself all has become clear.

"Anatole used to come to borrow money from her and used to kissher naked shoulders. She did not give him the money, but let herselfbe kissed. Her father in jest tried to rouse her jealousy, and shereplied with a calm smile that she was not so stupid as to be jealous:'Let him do what he pleases,' she used to say of me. One day I askedher if she felt any symptoms of pregnancy. She laughedcontemptuously and said she was not a fool to want to have children,and that she was not going to have any children by me."

Then he recalled the coarseness and bluntness of her thoughts andthe vulgarity of the expressions that were natural to her, thoughshe had been brought up in the most aristocratic circles.

"I'm not such a fool.... Just you try it on.... Allez-vouspromener,"* she used to say. Often seeing the success she had withyoung and old men and women Pierre could not understand why he did notlove her.

*"You clear out of this."

"Yes, I never loved her," said he to himself; "I knew she was adepraved woman," he repeated, "but dared not admit it to myself. Andnow there's Dolokhov sitting in the snow with a forced smile andperhaps dying, while meeting my remorse with some forced bravado!"

Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance ofwhat is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in theirtroubles. He digested his sufferings alone.

"It is all, all her fault," he said to himself; "but what of that?Why did I bind myself to her? Why did I say 'Je vous aime'* to her,which was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and mustendure... what? A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that'snonsense," he thought. "The slur on my name and honor- that's allapart from myself.

*I love you.

"Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonorable anda criminal," came into Pierre's head, "and from their point of viewthey were right, as were those too who canonized him and died amartyr's death for his sake. Then Robespierre was beheaded for being adespot. Who is right and who is wrong? No one! But if you are alive-live: tomorrow you'll die as I might have died an hour ago. And isit worth tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life incomparison with eternity?"

But at the moment when he imagined himself calmed by suchreflections, she suddenly came into his mind as she was at the momentswhen he had most strongly expressed his insincere love for her, and hefelt the blood rush to his heart and had again to get up and moveabout and break and tear whatever came to his hand. "Why did I tellher that 'Je vous aime'?" he kept repeating to himself. And when hehad said it for the tenth time, Molibre's words: "Mais que diablealloit-il faire dans cette galere?" occurred to him, and he began tolaugh at himself.

In the night he called his valet and told him to pack up to go toPetersburg. He could not imagine how he could speak to her now. Heresolved to go away next day and leave a letter informing her of hisintention to part from her forever.

Next morning when the valet came into the room with his coffee,Pierre was lying asleep on the ottoman with an open book in his hand.

He woke up and looked round for a while with a startledexpression, unable to realize where he was.

"The countess told me to inquire whether your excellency was athome," said the valet.

But before Pierre could decide what answer he would send, thecountess herself in a white satin dressing gown embroidered withsilver and with simply dressed hair (two immense plaits twice roundher lovely head like a coronet) entered the room, calm and majestic,except that there was a wrathful wrinkle on her rather prominentmarble brow. With her imperturbable calm she did not begin to speak infront of the valet. She knew of the duel and had come to speak aboutit. She waited till the valet had set down the coffee things andleft the room. Pierre looked at her timidly over his spectacles, andlike a hare surrounded by hounds who lays back her ears andcontinues to crouch motionless before her enemies, he tried tocontinue reading. But feeling this to be senseless and impossible,he again glanced timidly at her. She did not sit down but looked athim with a contemptuous smile, waiting for the valet to go.

"Well, what's this now? What have you been up to now, I shouldlike to know?" she asked sternly.

"I? What have I...?" stammered Pierre.

"So it seems you're a hero, eh? Come now, what was this duelabout? What is it meant to prove? What? I ask you."

Pierre turned over heavily on the ottoman and opened his mouth,but could not reply.

"If you won't answer, I'll tell you..." Helene went on. "You believeeverything you're told. You were told..." Helene laughed, "thatDolokhov was my lover," she said in French with her coarse plainnessof speech, uttering the word amant as casually as any other word, "andyou believed it! Well, what have you proved? What does this duelprove? That you're a fool, que vous etes un sot, but everybody knewthat. What will be the result? That I shall be the laughingstock ofall Moscow, that everyone will say that you, drunk and not knowingwhat you were about, challenged a man you are jealous of withoutcause." Helene raised her voice and became more and more excited, "Aman who's a better man than you in every way..."

"Hm... Hm...!" growled Pierre, frowning without looking at her,and not moving a muscle.

"And how could you believe he was my lover? Why? Because I likehis company? If you were cleverer and more agreeable, I shouldprefer yours."

"Don't speak to me... I beg you," muttered Pierre hoarsely.

"Why shouldn't I speak? I can speak as I like, and I tell youplainly that there are not many wives with husbands such as you whowould not have taken lovers (des amants), but I have not done so,"said she.

Pierre wished to say something, looked at her with eyes whosestrange expression she did not understand, and lay down again. Hewas suffering physically at that moment, there was a weight on hischest and he could not breathe. He knew that he must do something toput an end to this suffering, but what he wanted to do was tooterrible.

"We had better separate," he muttered in a broken voice.

"Separate? Very well, but only if you give me a fortune," saidHelene. "Separate! That's a thing to frighten me with!"

Pierre leaped up from the sofa and rushed staggering toward her.

"I'll kill you!" he shouted, and seizing the marble top of a tablewith a strength he had never before felt, he made a step toward herbrandishing the slab.

Helene's face became terrible, she shrieked and sprang aside. Hisfather's nature showed itself in Pierre. He felt the fascination anddelight of frenzy. He flung down the slab, broke it, and swooping downon her with outstretched hands shouted, "Get out!" in such aterrible voice that the whole house heard it with horror. God knowswhat he would have done at that moment had Helene not fled from theroom.

A week later Pierre gave his wife full power to control all hisestates in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property,and left for Petersburg alone.

CHAPTER VII

Two months had elapsed since the news of the battle of Austerlitzand the loss of Prince Andrew had reached Bald Hills, and in spiteof the letters sent through the embassy and all the searches made, hisbody had not been found nor was he on the list of prisoners. Whatwas worst of all for his relations was the fact that there was still apossibility of his having been picked up on the battlefield by thepeople of the place and that he might now be lying, recovering ordying, alone among strangers and unable to send news of himself. Thegazettes from which the old prince first heard of the defeat atAusterlitz stated, as usual very briefly and vaguely, that afterbrilliant engagements the Russians had had to retreat and had madetheir withdrawal in perfect order. The old prince understood from thisofficial report that our army had been defeated. A week after thegazette report of the battle of Austerlitz came a letter fromKutuzov informing the prince of the fate that had befallen his son.

"Your son," wrote Kutuzov, "fell before my eyes, a standard in hishand and at the head of a regiment- he fell as a hero, worthy of hisfather and his fatherland. To the great regret of myself and of thewhole army it is still uncertain whether he is alive or not. I comfortmyself and you with the hope that your son is alive, for otherwisehe would have been mentioned among the officers found on the fieldof battle, a list of whom has been sent me under flag of truce."

After receiving this news late in the evening, when he was alonein his study, the old prince went for his walk as usual nextmorning, but he was silent with his steward, the gardener, and thearchitect, and though he looked very grim he said nothing to anyone.

When Princess Mary went to him at the usual hour he was working athis lathe and, as usual, did not look round at her.

"Ah, Princess Mary!" he said suddenly in an unnatural voice,throwing down his chisel. (The wheel continued to revolve by its ownimpetus, and Princess Mary long remembered the dying creak of thatwheel, which merged in her memory with what followed.)

She approached him, saw his face, and something gave way within her.Her eyes grew dim. By the expression of her father's face, not sad,not crushed, but angry and working unnaturally, she saw that hangingover her and about to crush her was some terrible misfortune, theworst in life, one she had not yet experienced, irreparable andincomprehensible- the death of one she loved.

"Father! Andrew!"- said the ungraceful, awkward princess with suchan indescribable charm of sorrow and self-forgetfulness that herfather could not bear her look but turned away with a sob.

"Bad news! He's not among the prisoners nor among the killed!Kutuzov writes..." and he screamed as piercingly as if he wished todrive the princess away by that scream... "Killed!"

The princess did not fall down or faint. She was already pale, buton hearing these words her face changed and something brightened inher beautiful, radiant eyes. It was as if joy- a supreme joy apartfrom the joys and sorrows of this world- overflowed the great griefwithin her. She forgot all fear of her father, went up to him, tookhis hand, and drawing him down put her arm round his thin, scraggyneck.

"Father" she said, "do not turn away from me, let us weep together."

"Scoundrels! Blackguards!" shrieked the old man, turning his faceaway from her. "Destroying the army, destroying the men! And why?Go, go and tell Lise."

The princess sank helplessly into an armchair beside her fatherand wept. She saw her brother now as he had been at the moment when hetook leave of her and of Lise, his look tender yet proud. She sawhim tender and amused as he was when he put on the little icon. "Didhe believe? Had he repented of his unbelief? Was he now there? Therein the realms of eternal peace and blessedness?" she thought.

"Father, tell me how it happened," she asked through her tears.

"Go! Go! Killed in battle, where the best of Russian men andRussia's glory were led to destruction. Go, Princess Mary. Go and tellLise. I will follow."

When Princess Mary returned from her father, the little princess satworking and looked up with that curious expression of inner, happycalm peculiar to pregnant women. It was evident that her eyes didnot see Princess Mary but were looking within... into herself... atsomething joyful and mysterious taking place within her.

"Mary," she said, moving away from the embroidery frame and lyingback, "give me your hand." She took her sister-in-law's hand andheld it below her waist.

Her eyes were smiling expectantly, her downy lip rose and remainedlifted in childlike happiness.

Princess Mary knelt down before her and hid her face in the folds ofher sister-in-law's dress.

"There, there! Do you feel it? I feel so strange. And do you know,Mary, I am going to love him very much," said Lise, looking withbright and happy eyes at her sister-in-law.

Princess Mary could not lift her head, she was weeping.

"What is the matter, Mary?"

"Nothing... only I feel sad... sad about Andrew," she said, wipingaway her tears on her sister-in-law's knee.

Several times in the course of the morning Princess Mary begantrying to prepare her sister-in-law, and every time began to cry.Unobservant as was the little princess, these tears, the cause ofwhich she did not understand, agitated her. She said nothing butlooked about uneasily as if in search of something. Before dinnerthe old prince, of whom she was always afraid, came into her room witha peculiarly restless and malign expression and went out again withoutsaying a word. She looked at Princess Mary, then sat thinking for awhile with that expression of attention to something within her thatis only seen in pregnant women, and suddenly began to cry.

"Has anything come from Andrew?" she asked.

"No, you know it's too soon for news. But my father is anxious and Ifeel afraid."

"So there's nothing?"

"Nothing," answered Princess Mary, looking firmly with her radianteyes at her sister-in-law.

She had determined not to tell her and persuaded her father tohide the terrible news from her till after her confinement, whichwas expected within a few days. Princess Mary and the old princeeach bore and hid their grief in their own way. The old prince wouldnot cherish any hope: he made up his mind that Prince Andrew hadbeen killed, and though he sent an official to Austria to seek fortraces of his son, he ordered a monument from Moscow which he intendedto erect in his own garden to his memory, and he told everybody thathis son had been killed. He tried not to change his former way oflife, but his strength failed him. He walked less, ate less, sleptless, and became weaker every day. Princess Mary hoped. She prayed forher brother as living and was always awaiting news of his return.

CHAPTER VIII

"Dearest," said the little princess after breakfast on the morningof the nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit,but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word,and even every footstep in that house since the terrible news hadcome, so now the smile of the little princess- influenced by thegeneral mood though without knowing its cause- was such as to remindone still more of the general sorrow.

"Dearest, I'm afraid this morning's fruschtique*- as Foka the cookcalls it- has disagreed with me."

*Fruhstuck: breakfast.

"What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you arevery pale!" said Princess Mary in alarm, running with her soft,ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law.

"Your excellency, should not Mary Bogdanovna be sent for?" saidone of the maids who was present. (Mary Bogdanovna was a midwifefrom the neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the lastfortnight.)

"No, it's only indigestion?... Say it's only indigestion, say so,Mary! Say..." And the little princess began to cry capriciously like asuffering child and to wring her little hands even with someaffectation. Princess Mary ran out of the room to fetch MaryBogdanovna.

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh!" she heard as she left the room.

The midwife was already on her way to meet her, rubbing her small,plump white hands with an air of calm importance.

"Mary Bogdanovna, I think it's beginning!" said Princess Marylooking at the midwife with wide-open eyes of alarm.

"Well, the Lord be thanked, Princess," said Mary Bogdanovna, nothastening her steps. "You young ladies should not know anythingabout it."

"But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?" said theprincess. (In accordance with Lise's and Prince Andrew's wishes theyhad sent in good time to Moscow for a doctor and were expecting him atany moment.)

"No matter, Princess, don't be alarmed," said Mary Bogdanovna."We'll manage very well without a doctor."

Five minutes later Princess Mary from her room heard something heavybeing carried by. She looked out. The men servants were carrying thelarge leather sofa from Prince Andrew's study into the bedroom. Ontheir faces was a quiet and solemn look.

Princess Mary sat alone in her room listening to the sounds in thehouse, now and then opening her door when someone passed andwatching what was going on in the passage. Some women passing withquiet steps in and out of the bedroom glanced at the princess andturned away. She did not venture to ask any questions, and shut thedoor again, now sitting down in her easy chair, now taking herprayer book, now kneeling before the icon stand. To her surprise anddistress she found that her prayers did not calm her excitement.Suddenly her door opened softly and her old nurse, Praskovya Savishna,who hardly ever came to that room as the old prince had forbiddenit, appeared on the threshold with a shawl round her head.

"I've come to sit with you a bit, Masha," said the nurse, "andhere I've brought the prince's wedding candles to light before hissaint, my angel," she said with a sigh.

"Oh, nurse, I'm so glad!"

"God is merciful, birdie."

The nurse lit the gilt candles before the icons and sat down bythe door with her knitting. Princess Mary took a book and beganreading. Only when footsteps or voices were heard did they look at oneanother, the princess anxious and inquiring, the nurse encouraging.Everyone in the house was dominated by the same feeling thatPrincess Mary experienced as she sat in her room. But owing to thesuperstition that the fewer the people who know of it the less a womanin travail suffers, everyone tried to pretend not to know; no onespoke of it, but apart from the ordinary staid and respectful goodmanners habitual in the prince's household, a common anxiety, asoftening of the heart, and a consciousness that something great andmysterious was being accomplished at that moment made itself felt.

There was no laughter in the maids' large hall. In the men servants'hall all sat waiting, silently and alert. In the outlying serfs'quarters torches and candles were burning and no one slept. The oldprince, stepping on his heels, paced up and down his study and sentTikhon to ask Mary Bogdanovna what news.- "Say only that 'the princetold me to ask,' and come and tell me her answer."

"Inform the prince that labor has begun," said Mary Bogdanovna,giving the messenger a significant look.

Tikhon went and told the prince.

"Very good!" said the prince closing the door behind him, and Tikhondid not hear the slightest sound from the study after that.

After a while he re-entered it as if to snuff the candles, and,seeing the prince was lying on the sofa, looked at him, noticed hisperturbed face, shook his head, and going up to him silently kissedhim on the shoulder and left the room without snuffing the candlesor saying why he had entered. The most solemn mystery in the worldcontinued its course. Evening passed, night came, and the feeling ofsuspense and softening of heart in the presence of the unfathomabledid not lessen but increased. No one slept.

It was one of those March nights when winter seems to wish to resumeits sway and scatters its last snows and storms with desperate fury. Arelay of horses had been sent up the highroad to meet the Germandoctor from Moscow who was expected every moment, and men on horsebackwith lanterns were sent to the crossroads to guide him over thecountry road with its hollows and snow-covered pools of water.

Princess Mary had long since put aside her book: she sat silent, herluminous eyes fixed on her nurse's wrinkled face (every line ofwhich she knew so well), on the lock of gray hair that escaped fromunder the kerchief, and the loose skin that hung under her chin.

Nurse Savishna, knitting in hand, was telling in low tones, scarcelyhearing or understanding her own words, what she had told hundredsof times before: how the late princess had given birth to PrincessMary in Kishenev with only a Moldavian peasant woman to help insteadof a midwife.

"God is merciful, doctors are never needed," she said.

Suddenly a gust of wind beat violently against the casement of thewindow, from which the double frame had been removed (by order ofthe prince, one window frame was removed in each room as soon as thelarks returned), and, forcing open a loosely closed latch, set thedamask curtain flapping and blew out the candle with its chill,snowy draft. Princess Mary shuddered; her nurse, putting down thestocking she was knitting, went to the window and leaning out tried tocatch the open casement. The cold wind flapped the ends of herkerchief and her loose locks of gray hair.

"Oh, my God! thank God!" said Princess Mary. "I must go and meethim, he does not know Russian."

Princess Mary threw a shawl over her head and ran to meet thenewcomer. As she was crossing the anteroom she saw through thewindow a carriage with lanterns, standing at the entrance. She wentout on the stairs. On a banister post stood a tallow candle whichguttered in the draft. On the landing below, Philip, the footman,stood looking scared and holding another candle. Still lower, beyondthe turn of the staircase, one could hear the footstep of someone inthick felt boots, and a voice that seemed familiar to Princess Marywas saying something.

"Thank God!" said the voice. "And Father?"

"Gone to bed," replied the voice of Demyan the house steward, whowas downstairs.

Then the voice said something more, Demyan replied, and the steps inthe felt boots approached the unseen bend of the staircase morerapidly.

"It's Andrew!" thought Princess Mary. "No it can't be, that would betoo extraordinary," and at the very moment she thought this, theface and figure of Prince Andrew, in a fur cloak the deep collar ofwhich covered with snow, appeared on the landing where the footmanstood with the candle. Yes, it was he, pale, thin, with a changedand strangely softened but agitated expression on his face. He came upthe stairs and embraced his sister.

"You did not get my letter?" he asked, and not waiting for areply- which he would not have received, for the princess was unableto speak- he turned back, rapidly mounted the stairs again with thedoctor who had entered the hall after him (they had met at the lastpost station), and again embraced his sister.

"What a strange fate, Masha darling!" And having taken off his cloakand felt boots, he went to the little princess' apartment.

CHAPTER IX

The little princess lay supported by pillows, with a white cap onher head (the pains had just left her). Strands of her black hairlay round her inflamed and perspiring cheeks, her charming rosymouth with its downy lip was open and she was smiling joyfully. PrinceAndrew entered and paused facing her at the foot of the sofa onwhich she was lying. Her glittering eyes, filled with childlike fearand excitement, rested on him without changing their expression. "Ilove you all and have done no harm to anyone; why must I suffer so?Help me!" her look seemed to say. She saw her husband, but did notrealize the significance of his appearance before her now. PrinceAndrew went round the sofa and kissed her forehead.

"My darling!" he said- a word he had never used to her before."God is merciful...."

She looked at him inquiringly and with childlike reproach.

"I expected help from you and I get none, none from you either!"said her eyes. She was not surprised at his having come; she did notrealize that he had come. His coming had nothing to do with hersufferings or with their relief. The pangs began again and MaryBogdanovna advised Prince Andrew to leave the room.

The doctor entered. Prince Andrew went out and, meeting PrincessMary, again joined her. They began talking in whispers, but their talkbroke off at every moment. They waited and listened.

"Go, dear," said Princess Mary.

Prince Andrew went again to his wife and sat waiting in the roomnext to hers. A woman came from the bedroom with a frightened face andbecame confused when she saw Prince Andrew. He covered his face withhis hands and remained so for some minutes. Piteous, helpless,animal moans came through the door. Prince Andrew got up, went tothe door, and tried to open it. Someone was holding it shut.

"You can't come in! You can't!" said a terrified voice from within.

He began pacing the room. The screaming ceased, and a few moreseconds went by. Then suddenly a terrible shriek- it could not behers, she could not scream like that- came from the bedroom. PrinceAndrew ran to the door; the scream ceased and he heard the wail ofan infant.

"What have they taken a baby in there for?" thought Prince Andrew inthe first second. "A baby? What baby...? Why is there a baby there? Oris the baby born?"

Then suddenly he realized the joyful significance of that wail;tears choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill be beganto cry, sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with hisshirt sleeves tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a tremblingjaw, came out of the room. Prince Andrew turned to him, but the doctorgave him a bewildered look and passed by without a word. A womanrushed out and seeing Prince Andrew stopped, hesitating on thethreshold. He went into his wife's room. She was lying dead, in thesame position he had seen her in five minutes before and, despitethe fixed eyes and the pallor of the cheeks, the same expression wason her charming childlike face with its upper lip covered with tinyblack hair.

"I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what haveyou done to me?"- said her charming, pathetic, dead face.

In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt andsquealed in Mary Bogdanovna's trembling white hands.

Two hours later Prince Andrew, stepping softly, went into hisfather's room. The old man already knew everything. He was standingclose to the door and as soon as it opened his rough old arms closedlike a vise round his son's neck, and without a word he began to soblike a child.

Three days later the little princess was buried, and Prince Andrewwent up the steps to where the coffin stood, to give her thefarewell kiss. And there in the coffin was the same face, thoughwith closed eyes. "Ah, what have you done to me?" it still seemed tosay, and Prince Andrew felt that something gave way in his soul andthat he was guilty of a sin he could neither remedy nor forget. Hecould not weep. The old man too came up and kissed the waxen littlehands that lay quietly crossed one on the other on her breast, andto him, too, her face seemed to say: "Ah, what have you done to me,and why?" And at the sight the old man turned angrily away.

Another five days passed, and then the young Prince NicholasAndreevich was baptized. The wet nurse supported the coverlet with herwhile the priest with a goose feather anointed the boy's little redand wrinkled soles and palms.

His grandfather, who was his godfather, trembling and afraid ofdropping him, carried the infant round the battered tin font andhanded him over to the godmother, Princess Mary. Prince Andrew satin another room, faint with fear lest the baby should be drowned inthe font, and awaited the termination of the ceremony. He looked upjoyfully at the baby when the nurse brought it to him and noddedapproval when she told him that the wax with the baby's hair had notsunk in the font but had floated.

CHAPTER X

Rostov's share in Dolokhov's duel with Bezukhov was hushed up by theefforts of the old count, and instead of being degraded to the ranksas he expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor general ofMoscow. As a result he could not go to the country with the rest ofthe family, but was kept all summer in Moscow by his new duties.Dolokhov recovered, and Rostov became very friendly with him duringhis convalescence. Dolokhov lay ill at his mother's who loved himpassionately and tenderly, and old Mary Ivanovna, who had grown fondof Rostov for his friendship to her Fedya, often talked to him abouther son.